Moonlight
by MyBlueOblivion
Summary: Confusion abounds as a dark force begins attacking the villages around Cair Paravel. Could a visiting Galmian Lord and his dark-eyed son hold the key to this new threat to Narnia? Book/movie/elecktrum-verse.
1. Chapter 1

Moonlight

Chapter 1

There were days when Edmund truly envied his siblings, and today was one of them.

It was a beautiful day, of the kind found at the end of spring and on the cusp of summer. Warm sunshine filtered down into the throne room of Cair Paravel through it's many windows, the heat countered perfectly by a cool, salt-scented breeze winding its way through the large archway to Edmund's left. Outside, the flowers and vines that lined the archway moved gently in the wind, their shadows dancing on the tiled floor of the balcony... Edmund would have done anything to be outside, maybe riding with his friend, Philip, or sitting on the beach watching the tide come in. A small part of his mind wished he was just an ordinary thirteen year old, instead of being King Edmund the Just.

Given his current predicament, Edmund wished more than anything that he was with his brother or sisters, or for at least one of them to be here. Susan had been dragged off to visit Mr. Tumnus by Lucy (rather conveniently, he thought), and Peter had taken a contingent of the army to investigate rumours of some of the northern giants massing on the border. He had been gone just over a week. And so it was that Edmund found himself stuck inside on a beautiful day, listening to the droning voice of an ambassador from Calormen. Facing down Ettin giants with Peter would have been far better than being at home at this particular moment.

A polite cough brought Edmund's wandering mind back to the matter at hand, and it was with some embarrassment that he noticed that his guest had finished speaking. The cough had come from the direction of one of the satyr guards, Ciaphas, and Edmund made a point of glancing gratefully in his direction, before turning his gaze to the ambassador. The man in question was gazing up at Edmund, his small, piggy eyes filled with something akin to hope, and it was all the young king could do not to shudder, as the parts of his mind that had been paying attention tried to remind him of what the Calormene had been saying.

The ambassador was apparently a mid-ranking Tarkaan, or lord, and had just spent the best part of twenty minutes expounding upon his many virtues... which, so far as Edmund could discern, were mostly untrue. He was a rather unsightly man of middle age, dressed in a set of opulent robes that seemed to be of several different sizes, none of which quite fit. His pudgy face, which was adorned with a ridiculously curled moustache and a beard that had been greased into twin points, was creased into an expression that was either a sign of indigestion or an obsequious smile. The result was quite unsettling, to say the least.

The Tarkaan, who's name was Rashmeed, had just finished describing the extent of his lands, the number of his servants, the many lavish gifts he had given to the temple of Tash, and the times he had been blessed to be in the presence of the Tisroc (who Rashmeed kept wishing would live forever in a voice that said quite the opposite); Edmund nearly pointed out that the man had forgotten to mention his blessing of multiple chins, but stamped down upon the childish impulse. Tarkaan Rashmeed had arrived at Cair Paravel the previous day, with a small army of flunkies, servants and hangers-on, intent on brokering some form of treaty with the Narnian royal family. With a rush, Edmund realised that he had, in fact, missed what that deal was supposed to be.

"What do you think, Oh My Lord?" Rashmeed wheedled, underlining his words with a spreading of his chubby-fingered hands. "Can we perhaps reach some form of agreement?"

"Agreement?" Edmund asked, clearing his throat quietly. The Tarkaan's face coloured slightly, darkening around the edges, and Edmund was sure that he saw the smile slip slightly.

"Yes, Oh Wise Young King," Rashmeed continued smoothly, his voice becoming mildly more nasal than before, "an agreement. A price that you might see fit as payment for the right to court your royal sister, Queen Susan." The hangers-on nodded sagely as he said this, murmuring in ascent. Edmund found his own diplomatic smile disappearing.

"You came all this way to barter for my _sister_?" Edmund asked incredulously, trying very hard to keep his voice calm. "She's only fifteen, you know."

"And as the poets have said, 'As fine oil is wasted upon the pallets of the poor, so youth shall only be appreciated by the wise'. Truly, your sister is wise, to rule such a... _wondrous _land such as this," Rashmeed countered quickly, nodding in a fashion that set his face to wobbling slightly. "Surely, she is of age to know her own mind, and as such is ready to consider marriage. Have not the poets said that 'love is more precious than carbuncles....'"

"Yes, I'm sure they did," Edmund cut in sharply, all at once angry with the Calormene noble for his suggestion, and with himself for not having his sword handy. Rashmeed simply goggled at him, mouth working like a distressed carp, as Edmund continued. "It pains me to say it, my good Tarkaan, but it appears you have had a wasted journey. There will be no such agreement. You are welcome to stay here for the night, and after that I wish you a speedy journey back to Calormen with Narnia's good will. Good day to you, sir."

"You... you can't do this!" Rashmeed practically shouted, his voice raising in outrage. He stood up from his previously slightly-stooped position, and levelled what he obviously believed was his most intimidating glare at Edmund, whilst puffing out his chest in an imperious manner.

In his own provinces, and especially amongst his own slaves, Rashmeed's actions were indeed considered to be most threatening, frightening even. But Rashmeed was not in his own provinces, and the subject of his glare was no servant, save to Aslan and his people. When one has been glared at by every manner of fell creature, from ogres to enraged minotaurs, such glares lose a lot of their impact when used by a lesser individual. Edmund found himself briefly reminded not so much of a threat, but more of a dyspeptic puppy he had had the misfortune of holding a few weeks previously. It was all he could do to not ask the Tarkaan if he was feeling unwell, which no doubt would only have hindered the situation.

"I _can_ do this, and I _will_," Edmund said coolly instead, a slightly sharp edge to his voice the only thing that betrayed just how angry he was, very much to his credit. Rashmeed missed the hint entirely, and continued regardless.

"If your brother the High King were here," he hissed, "he would listen to reason!"

"Actually," Edmund replied, standing and taking a few steps forward, whilst impaling the Tarkaan with a glare of his own (which was far more impressive than the Tarkaan's), "my brother would most likely order your immediate removal from our lands, or perhaps challenge you to single combat for impugning our sister's honour. I'll admit, I'm quite tempted by the second option myself. I don't know about matters in your land, sir, but in Narnia we do not treat women as property to be traded. Now leave, before I have you escorted over the border. Ciaphas, Darien," Edmund motioned to the guards at the door, "please ensure that the ambassador and his cohorts have sufficient provisions for the journey home. They'll be leaving as soon as they are packed."

The two satyrs stepped forward, smiling at the Calormene delegation in a manner that said in no uncertain terms that they would do the packing personally, if it was required. Edmund watched them go, ushered out in a whirl of silks and turbans (and some Calormen words that left no-one within earshot in any doubt as to how polite they were), before slumping into his throne with a sigh. He slowly removed his crown, and ran one hand through his dark hair... Susan would be pestering him to get it cut before long, he mused with a tired smile. After a few seconds, Edmund turned to Amelie, the court recorder for the day.

"So, what's next on the agenda for today?" he asked her wearily.

"Nothing more for today, Your Majesty," the young badger replied with a curtsey and a shy smile.

"Thank Aslan for that," Ed replied softly with a smile of his own. "Time for a cup of tea, I think."

"There is one piece of news, Your Majesty," Amelie said, calling back his attention as he stood and stretched the kinks from his back and neck. "The High King sent word ahead via one of the scouts with his company. He said to say that the negotiations went well, and that the High King should be home around noon tomorrow."

"Those words exactly?"

"Exactly, my king," the badger replied, smiling once more. "The raven said that the High King had asked for an exact repetition."

Edmund couldn't hold back a grin at that comment; negotiations with Ettins were rarely anything less than diplomacy at sword point, and the word 'negotiations' itself was a private joke between Edmund and his brother. That Peter had asked the scout to use that term precisely was his way of letting Ed know that everything had gone well, and no-one had been very badly hurt. Edmund thanked Amelie once more, then retired to his chambers for a little quiet time by himself, far away from obnoxious dignitaries.

O o O o O

Edmund had spent the rest of the day, and indeed most of the following morning, with a smile on his face. His obvious happiness was infectious; by the time supper was being served (broiled fish with green beans and potatoes, followed by a delicate raspberry sorbet), a definite bounce had infiltrated the steps of the various staff at the Cair. Not that they weren't almost always happy, of course. But Edmund had been feeling less than himself with the absence of his siblings for the past three days, and now that one of them was close to returning, his increasingly improved mood was spreading.

It wasn't that Edmund wasn't capable of surviving without his family. On occasions, it had been a necessity, and every time he had acquitted himself well, handling himself with all the bearing required of a king. The trouble, Edmund sometimes mused, was that he had spent so very long apart from his family when he was younger, even when they were within arm's reach, that he couldn't easily abide their being gone for very long now. He missed them, plainly put; and while a younger, less pleasant Edmund would have shrugged off the idea as some form of weakness, this Edmund embraced the idea of missing his brother and sisters... he missed them because he loved them, and he didn't see it as wrong to do so.

The next morning, as the sun began its slow climb into the sky, a freshly bathed, tired and aching Edmund settled himself down to breakfast, smile still firmly in place. It had remained there despite the ministrations of his weapon-masters and tutors; with Peter gone, the remaining instructors at the training grounds had taken it upon themselves to teach Edmund doubly in his place. Edmund had been refining his dual sword techniques with Celer all week, and the faun captain had made use of Edmund's increased drive this morning by teasing a particularly fine set of bladework from the boy, before sending him to breakfast early with a gentle cuff to the shoulder, and a well-disguised but proud smile.

Edmund was happily working his way through his second plate of scrambled eggs and lightly herbed sausages, whilst wondering if it would be too cheeky to ask for another rack of toast, when he heard perhaps the greatest sound to reach his ears since his sisters had left on their trip. It was a clarion call, long, high and clear, one that Edmund knew well. His smile widening to joyous proportions, Edmund grabbed one last slice of toast and made for the door, checking the clock briefly as he left the small dining room for the cool corridors beyond.

Peter, typically, was early.

O o O o O

Peter was glad to be home at last. When he and his company had set out three weeks ago, they had only expected to be gone for a few days, a week at most. The Ettins that had been raiding along Narnia's northern border had been more numerous than anyone had expected, however, and it had taken more than a fortnight to finally give the brutes enough of a reason to retreat back to their own lands. There had been several casualties amongst the Narnian forces, and while one or two of his soldiers had been badly injured, Peter could at least be thankful that no-one had died. Peter had his own, personal reasons for despising the cruel giants, and this latest series of attacks was just one more reason, so far as he was concerned.

Pushing the dark memories aside with a sigh, Peter watched with quiet pride as his forces returned home and began the business of disarming. From astride Arahayne, he could see the whole courtyard; the injured were already being ferried to the hospital wing, the centaur cavalry were being assisted by dwarf and satyr armourers to remove their packs and the parts of their weaponry and armour that they still carried upon them, while faun healers and valets bustled around and amongst the group, tending to the tired soldiers as needed. And there, descending the steps from the large double doors that led into the castle, was Edmund, his dark hair marking him out clearly as he moved into the mass of moving creatures.

Arahayne whickered softly, and began to fidget beneath his rider, eager to be unsaddled and led to food and rest. Peter leaned forward, whispering softly and rubbing the coal-grey charger's neck affectionately, before dismounting with the fluid grace of a seasoned horseman. He rubbed the horse's nose softly, and offered him gentle words of thanks; Arahayne was not a Talking animal, being Archenlandish in origin, and so could neither understand nor respond in kind, but it still seemed to be the right thing to do. Peter then handed the reigns to a stable-hand, before turning toward his home... and quickly finding his arms full of little brother.

"Miss me by any chance," he said with a warm smile, before planting a small kiss amongst his younger brother's dark locks. Edmund squeezed a little harder in response, before finally stepping back, a wide smile on his own features.

"You have no idea," Edmund said. "The girls went off visiting three days ago, and I've been stuck here holding down the fort. How did it go?"

"About as well as can be expected," Peter replied, nodding toward the last of the injured soldiers as they left the yard. "Not too many seriously injured, though I don't think anyone came out without at least a few bruises. We were lucky. Ettins, Ed... do you think we'll ever hear the last of them?"

"I don't know," came the thoughtful reply, Ed's dark eyebrows knitting together for a brief moment, before he looked back up into his brother's bright blue eyes. "And how are you faring?"

"About as well as can be expected," Peter said quietly. He caught the worried expression in his brother's eyes, and smiled reassuringly, if a little awkwardly. "Really, Ed, I'm fine. Just a bit tired, that's all."

"Good," Edmund said simply, deciding not to say any more on the subject. "It really is good to have you back, you know." Peter smiled at his brother once more, and reached up to tousle his hair.

"It's good to be back. Any trouble while I was gone?" Peter asked, as he started walking slowly across the courtyard, heading toward the castle proper. Edmund fell into step beside him, thinking a moment before replying.

"Not really," he began. "Just the usual business. Two dwarf clans disputing mining rights, a letter from Galmia about some lord wanting to come and visit, and one Calormen ambassador." With mention of the last, Edmund's tone darkened slightly, accompanied by a slight frown. Peter looked down at his brother, and smiled.

"Ah... you mean Rashmeed," he said knowingly.

"Yes, that would be... hang on," Ed said, stopping briefly, and staring at Peter with wide eyes. "How did you know his name?"

"We sort of ran into his caravan yesterday evening, on the road out from Beruna," Peter replied, his voice telling Edmund that Peter wasn't telling him something.

"Oh," Edmund replied with an air of nonchalance. "Did he say anything about his visit?"

"Something about you being very rude," Peter said, breaking into a wide grin, and making Edmund's cheeks colour slightly.

"Really? Did he happen to say _why _that might have been?"

"He did, yes," Peter said, his own voice darkening at the memory, before he half-changed the subject. "It's lucky Susan wasn't here, you know how much she hates that kind of attention."

"Very lucky," Ed agreed. "Which reminds me, that's the second time Lucy's dragged her off at just the right moment. I'm starting to think that either she has spies in the Calormen court, or else Father Christmas slipped her a crystal ball one year and she hasn't told us about it. So, what did you say to him?" At this last question, it was Peter's turn to flush slightly. He turned toward Edmund, but wouldn't quite meet his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"I, umm... don't quite remember."

"Oh, come on. That's bunk, Pete, and you know it!" Edmund jibed good-naturedly, quirking an eyebrow at his older brother. They had reached the steps up to the castle doors, and Edmund took a step up the flight so that he could look Peter straight in the eyes. "Come on, out with it!"

"I... might have challenged him," Peter said in a low voice.

"Good!" exclamed Edmund in reply, laughing at Peter's response. "Oh, come on, Peter, I knew you would. I nearly did myself!" Both boys laughed then, and Peter placed one hand on Ed's shoulder as they headed for the doors, quietly glad of his brother's company.

"Yes, but I'm supposed to be setting a good example," Peter finally admitted, as the young kings left the warmth of the morning sunshine, and entered the cool stone hallways of Cair Paravel. Edmund turned to look at his brother, ready to make another joke, but stopped when he saw Peter's expression; he was drawn, and looked more tired than he had in some time. Peter still got like this, whenever Ettins were involved. They just brought back too many bad memories for the High King, and for that Edmund couldn't blame him in the slightest.

Edmund knew better than most what it was like to have to face the things he feared most, and so he did what Peter normally did for him at times like this, when he was caught between his memories and doubts. Edmund stepped forward, and promptly wrapped his arms around his brother, which was a rare occurrence all by itself. His head resting against his brother's chest, Peter's heartbeat faint in his ears, Ed smiled as Peter returned the hug.

"You are a good example," he said, putting as much love as he could into the words. "The very best. Don't ever doubt that." He stepped back after a minute, and was glad to see that Peter was smiling once more.

"I'm fine, really," Peter said with a sigh. "I'm just tired."

"You're sure?" Ed asked, a hint of uncertainty colouring his voice.

"Absolutely," Peter assured him, before reaching up to squeeze his brother's shoulder. "I missed you, you know."

"I know," Edmund said in response, grinning widely. Peter laughed at that, and the sound was like music to Edmund's ears. "Come on," he continued, "let's get you some breakfast and you can tell me what I missed."

Smiles still firmly in place, the brothers began the ascent to their chambers, entering the warren of corridors and stairs that made up their home. They chatted and bantered back and forth, their voices and laughter echoing through their home. All who heard them smiled, or even laughed quietly themselves, glad of their young monarchs, and the joy that the four brought to their home, by Aslan's grace. By that evening, the mood had improved even further, as news had reached them that the queens would return on the morrow.

O o O o O

As the day drew to a close, and the night pulled its dark blanket across the world, Edmund found himself standing on the balcony that adjoined his and Peter's bedroom, watching as the first of the stars came out. Over the faint sounds of the ocean, and the occasional call of crickets in the gardens below him, Edmund was happily aware of the quiet snores of his brother. He had managed to convince Peter to rest for most of the day, and had been pleased when his brother had turned in for the night early.

His brother was home, and tomorrow his sisters would be too. All was right with the world. And Edmund briefly found himself wondering at just how much he had actually missed his siblings these last few days. After a few more minutes of enjoying the cool evening air, Edmund decided that he was just thinking too much on the subject. After a few minutes of simply enjoying the sensation of being at peace, Edmund decided that he was simply too awake to go to bed himself, and so went in search of some hot chocolate and something light to read.

* * *

Author's Notes: The disclaimer for this story can be found in my profile, just so I don't end up repeating myself. Don't own it, never will.

In addition, some of the characters and events in this story belong firmly in what I have fondly dubbed the 'elecktrumverse'... being that they belong to the wonderful author, Elecktrum. She has very kindly given me permission to set up shop in a corner of her beautifully crafted sandbox... my humblest thanks, good my friend. In particular, Moonlight takes place after Thole, as hinted at in this chapter, and there's every possibility that similar nods will crop up along the way. If you feel like a truly fantastic read, go and check out Elecktrum's works right now!

Anything else that isn't immediately recognisable as canon or elecktrumverse belongs to me, more than likely.

It's a rambling start, I know, but that's just how it turned out... in all truth, when I first started drawing up a plot for this ficlet, I pictured something quite different for a beginning. Odd, that. It should become more exciting later, though.

This is going to take a while to finish, I'll warn you now. I've got a lot on, with real-life and other writing projects that I want to finish. I finished this chapter on a whim, in the hopes of killing some writer's block... it seems to have worked, for the moment at least, and so I thought I'd post it and see what everyone thinks. Please bear with me, okay? Also, please review, if you have the time... it's always nice to hear what you, the readers, think... especially as this is a change of style for me (albeit a small one!).

Yours,

MyBlueOblivion


	2. Chapter 2

Moonlight

Chapter Two

"We really have to do something about these cursed suitors, Peter. They just don't seem to have gotten the message."

Peter was sitting on a bench in the Cair's training armoury, and looking, to Edmund's mind, far too alert for this early on a Seventhday morn. At the sound of his younger brother's musings, the blonde king stopped wrestling with his bootlaces for a moment and looked up, a faint smile playing across his lips. Edmund had never been a morning person, but today he had woken up with almost no argument, and had been practically buoyant on his way down to the training fields. One message from a squirrel courier later, and his mood had soured a little.

"If Oswyn could hear you," the older boy said lightly, watching as Edmund straightened his pauldrons over his mail shirt, "he'd have a fit."

"Or at least give me lines," Edmund replied, offering Peter a smirk of his own, while picturing the look of shock on their Speech and Grammar tutor's face. The elderly Snowy Owl was an excellent tutor, and a truly eloquent speaker, but he could be too much of a stickler for the rules of language for Ed's taste on occasion. "So what do you say?"

"About the suitors?" Peter returned, muffled partially by the tabard he was pulling over his armour, its traditional vibrant red bright against the dull stone walls of the armoury. When he re-emerged, he was looking thoughtful.

"I don't honestly know, Ed," he said, moving to start strapping on his leg greaves. "I truthfully thought you had cracked it with the _Codex Consors_. Once word spread, which it should have by now, that marrying into our family wouldn't lead anywhere on a political front... it should have done the job." The older king looked thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe we could put up signs on the border?" Peter finished with a grin, which raised a lopsided smile from his younger brother.

"Something like 'Prospective suitors will be shot on sight', you mean?" he said, eyes alight with good humour again.

"'And survivors will be shot again'," Peter finished with a chuckle, before standing and making his way to the door to fetch his weapons. "Don't worry about Rashmeed, Ed, Celer and his company will see him off without any trouble. Come on." Edmund's smile broke out into laughter at that point, as he followed his brother into the neighbouring chamber, where their wargear was held.

O o O o O

When the kings had run into Skitterleaf, an old friend of Edmund's, and one of the many smaller animals who ran messages around the Cair, the news the young squirrel had brought with him had been less than welcome. In the quick, breathless manner of his kind he had informed them both that he had received urgent news from his family that morning; Rashmeed Tarkaan, it seemed, had been less than honest about his plans to leave Narnia at once. Instead of crossing the border to Archenland (he had claimed he was on another trade mission there as well, which, when Edmund had interjected the information, had garnered a raised eyebrow from Peter), the odious Calormen had set up camp firmly on the Narnian side of the border. Peter had immediately asked Skitterleaf if he would be so kind as to find Celer for them, and with a cheerful farewell the small grey animal had scampered into the distance.

Celer had arrived just a short while later; even though Seventhday was meant to be a day of rest, and as such the training grounds were almost completely deserted, the faun had apparently been on his way down for a little light exercise in lieu of the extra sleep most afforded themselves. If, in turn, he was surprised to find Wolfsbane and How - as they were known in the confines of the training area – in the armoury, especially in light of Peter's recent return from a campaign, he showed no outward sign save a brief flicker of consternation. Instead, he saluted crisply, and asked his kings of the nature of the summons.

After Peter and Edmund had outlined the nature of the problem, and asked the captain to organise a detachment of the guard to escort the wayward ambassador over the border, the pair had been a little surprised when Celer had respectfully requested to lead the unit personally; it had been some time since he had seen anything like active service, and as a result he seemed eager to 'stretch his legs', as he had put it. The kings had seen no reason not to give their friend leave for a change, and so he had left with their blessings (along with three fauns, two large cats, a pair of satyrs and a powerfully built stag named Rainu). Thinking back on all of this, and the idea of the look on Rashmeed's face when Celer explained (in no uncertain terms) that he had outstayed his welcome, kept Edmund chuckling pretty much all of the way to the corner of the training ground Peter had chosen for them.

O o O o O

"No shield today, Ed?" Peter remarked, whilst checking that he had tied Rhindon's scabbard to his belt tightly enough, then hefting his shield speculatively. On the other side of the weapons chamber, Edmund had already looped the belt that held Shafelm around his waist, and was reaching for one of his small collection of training blades, Misericorde. The sword had been a birthday gift from the regent of Galmia when Edmund had turned twelve; while not made to quite the exacting standards of Shafelm III, the blade was well balanced, a hand shorter than Ed's favoured blade, and made for a decent off-hand weapon. Peter knew that Edmund had taken to using two swords almost as quickly as Peter had taken to using a sword and shield, and if what Edmund had told him of his training the night before was any indicator, then this spar should be interesting, to say the least.

"I thought I'd keep up my practice," Edmund replied with a knowing smile, and said no more on the matter.

Weapons and armour all accounted for, the brothers left the armoury for the training field. The air was cool and crisp, carrying a faint hint of the flowers that lined the castle walls nearby, and judging by the way the sun had crept up to the top of the wall that surrounded this part of the Cair, Edmund judged the time to be just before eight. Aside from the occasional bird dancing beneath the clear sky, not a soul stirred as the kings took up their positions. Edmund drew both of his swords, Shafelm in his right hand, Misericorde in his left, and simply held them for a few moments like his tutors had shown him, flexing his fingers and allowing his hands and arms to re-learn their respective weights. At the same time, he began to mentally run through the various cadences that he had learned in the last few weeks, preparing to put them to use. Celer and the others had taught him well... Edmund just hoped it had all stuck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund watched as Peter warmed up, drawing Rhindon in a slow, fluid motion, and with barely a pause beginning to spin the sword through a series of lazy, circular patterns. The languid pace of the movements did not fool the younger king for a moment; he had seen those self-same movements repeated at much higher, deadlier speeds too many times before, the silvered edge of the High King's sword weaving an intricate web around its master. Edmund knew that Peter would be on top form this morning, having so recently been put through very real combat, against a foe that would not stop or yield as one would on the tilting grounds. And right there was the only fact that gave the Just King any pause... just how close to the surface would the memory of those experiences be?

As Peter finally slowed and stopped, taking up a posture that said he was ready to begin their sparring session, Edmund allowed himself a brief moment to loosen up his arms, spinning both swords in tight circles at his sides a few times, then continuing the motion by crossing and uncrossing his arms, allowing the paired blades to trace a loose figure-of-eight around his body. Turning to face his brother, Edmund returned his still-spinning swords to his sides. Abruptly, he stopped their forward motion, deftly changing direction to perform two reverse spins, ending with both weapons upright and parallel in front of him, hilts just below eye level in a knight's salute. Peter raised Rhindon in turn, before returning the sword to a ready position at his side, his shield raised in his other hand.

"Ready?" Peter asked, a playful smile crossing his features, which Edmund readily returned.

"Ready if you are," he replied, before taking up his own fighting stance, swords held down and slightly out to his sides, points toward the ground. With his right foot, Edmund took a half-step forward, bending his left knee a little, forming a kind of shallow, battle-ready crouch. The position was called _carn saelle_, 'the resting willow', a position designed for both strength of stance and flexibility of response.

Over the past few weeks, Celer and a handful of the more accomplished faun swordsmen had been teaching Edmund a series of bladeforms, or _kata_, designed for the use of paired blades. This stance was the first he had learned, one of those belonging to what Celer had called the Autumnal Cycle; being as close as fauns were to the natural cycles of the land, Edmund had only been mildly surprised to find that the four main fighting styles matched the seasons of Narnia in form. The Spring Cycle, normally taught first, matched its namesake in form, and revolved around evading the foe through a series of jumps and spins that would have left a grasshopper dizzy, wearing down the enemy for a clean, decisive strike. Summer, in turn, consisted of a complex sequence of fast, dance-like manoeuvres striking with both blades in a delicately woven, yet unrelenting, tide.

Due to the most obvious problem of converting these kata to the use of a human (namely, the fact that Edmund wasn't a faun, and couldn't jump or skip in anything like the same fashion), Celer had opted to teach his student the harder two styles first; Autumn taught a neat combination of immovability and flexibility, and Winter taught clean, precise bladework in a tight, localised area, neither of which really played to the natural strengths of a faun soldier, and were only ever used in conjunction with Spring and Summer to provide balance. Edmund, much to the fauns' delight, had proved ideally suited to a complete reversal of that doctrine, easily adapting to the 'colder' styles, and working in elements of the 'warmer' styles where he was physically able.

Still smiling, Peter moved in first, swinging in a quick downward arc with Rhindon, before bringing his shield arm around, ready to block any counter that Edmund would make. Knowing the opening move well, Edmund swept Misericorde up to deflect Rhindon, while swinging Shafelm around in a horizontal sweep toward Peter's shield. Edmund stepped into the motion, neatly spinning counter-clockwise as he did so, dancing out of the way until he was off to Peter's left, bringing Misericorde around in a wide arc and forcing Peter to bring his shield backward to stop the strike... a decent rendition, Edmund thought, of _sa'an rysst_, 'the river flows'.

The duel continued for a few minutes, with Edmund changing cadences every few seconds, fluidly moving from the sharp, sweeping strikes of the 'storm of leaves' sequence, through to the dancing, evasive techniques of 'the rising wind' and more, all the while adapting the techniques to his opponent as he had been taught. In turn, Peter adapted to the unfamiliar style his brother was using, trying not to let Edmund wear him down or find a chink in his defences. The easy smiles were gone, now, replaced by expressions of calm concentration as each brother tested the defences of the other, jockeying for any advantage over the other duellist. Neither truly held the upper hand; sometimes, Peter was able to beat Edmund back, other times Edmund was able to place multiple strikes against Peter's sword, shield and armour in quick succession, forcing him to fight defensively.

Edmund wasn't sure quite when the change happened, but before long Peter's technique began to alter. It was subtle, hard to notice if you didn't know what you were looking for; something in his body language and stance, a slight increase in the speed and ferocity of his movements and attacks. He was starting to fight as he would in an actual battle, losing himself a little to the instincts that took over in true combat. While Edmund trusted Peter not to cross that line, trusted him with his life, in fact, accidents did happen when people got careless. Manoeuvring himself away from his older brother, Edmund flourished his swords once in a clearing pattern, before settling into a stance he had used only once so far, _shyr na rael_ – 'the jaws of winter'. Both blades came to rest on Edmund's right side, Misericorde parallel to the ground at waist height, pointing away from Peter, Shafelm placed just below head height at the same angle, though pointed toward the older boy.

Edmund caught a glimpse of his brother's eyes in the moment that followed, and knew then that Peter really wasn't thinking straight. His eyes were cold and focussed, a little _too_ focussed in fact, and Edmund decided that he needed to stop the duel before it got any further along. Before he could do anything, though, Peter lunged forward again, back on the offensive. The only response that came to Edmund's mind was one that he had been itching to try, the one that lent itself most readily to the stance he was in already. Unfortunately for Edmund, it was also the one he had practised the least so far, as he had only just begun learning it.

Edmund began to drive Peter back with a series of fast, broad sweeps, alternating between blades and using a combination of high and low strikes. After a couple of steps, Edmund began to pirouette every other step, Shafelm spinning above his head and Misericorde striking out at waist height, using the added momentum to lay down a storm of blows that forced Peter first onto the defensive, then to start stepping backward. The sequence of complex steps and spins was one of the most difficult parts of the Winter Cycle, a pattern called _bahr t'sa caen_ – according to Celer, the name translated loosely as 'frozen leaves that fall to cut'. Also known more simply as 'bladestorm', it was a graceful and poetic name for a graceful and deadly cadence. It also had the habit of leaving you more than a little dizzy, if you weren't used to it...

Which is precisely what happened, just a few seconds later. Edmund faltered after just a few turns, and staggered slightly, causing his attack to break stride. Off balance, Edmund only brought Shafelm up just in time to stop a blow to the head, and found himself staring into the ice-blue eyes of his brother. For a brief second, Edmund worried that he had let his brother go a bit too far, the gaze meeting his own being far harder than he was used to seeing. Almost immediately, Peter's expression softened, becoming a little shame-faced as he backed away from Edmund, sheathing Rhindon as he did so. As Edmund sheathed his own weapons, Peter removed his helmet and pulled back the mail coif beneath it.

"Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly... he had been unable to miss the look of shock on Edmund's face in that last moment, and he had a horrid feeling that he had gone too far, to put it mildly.

"'m fine," was the half-mumbled response, the dark-haired youth refusing to meet Peter's eyes. With a sigh, Peter stepped forward, reaching for Edmund as he did so. With a gentle hand on one elbow, the older boy gently turned his brother to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, his remorse for scaring his brother clear in his voice. "I suppose I got a little carried away... alright, I _did_ get carried away," he admitted, after earning himself a reproving eyebrow quirk from Edmund. "I never would have hit you, you know."

"I know you wouldn't," Edmund said, relaxing a little, before turning a little and starting to walk back to the armoury, Peter half a step behind. "I trust you Pete, you just caught me by surprise, is all."

"The next time I suggest something like this," Peter said softly, "would you do me a favour, Ed? Remind me of why Oreius said we shouldn't spar after one of us has been in a battle, okay?"

"Only if you remember," Edmund countered, some of his humour returning as the pair passed through the stone archway that led into the armoury chambers, "that the next time I let you talk me into it, I'm a much better conversationalist with my head still on my shoulders! Come on, Peter. I could have stopped you this morning, or talked you out of this, but didn't. Like I said, I trust you. If anything, it was partly my fault for showing off."

"Well, I'm impressed," Peter said proudly, earning him a pleased smile, and the sight of Edmund's face colouring slightly. "Celer would be too, if I'm any judge. Though, maybe not of that last part..."

Peter was abruptly cut off, having to duck as Edmund aimed a playful swipe at his head. Dancing out of the way, Peter ran for the changing room, laughing as his brother gave chase.

O o O o O

The boys had spent the rest of the morning simply enjoying each other's company, first over breakfast, then retiring to the library. They talked for a while about Peter's time on the northern border, but Edmund made sure not to press his brother for too much information, content instead to just listen, and let Peter talk out the stresses of the last few weeks in his own time. It came as no surprise to Ed that when Peter finally started to open up, instead of bottling up everything as he was prone to doing, it didn't take long for the last vestiges of tension to disappear. As Peter talked, Edmund found himself glad once more that his brother was home safely, and felt more than a few stirrings of anger once more at the Ettins, which he kept hidden with no small effort.

The giants in question had appeared to be acting independently of the normal hierarchy of the northlands, a rogue group of almost a dozen giants that were trying to gain a foothold in Narnia in an effort to claim a land for their own. They had harassed the local Narnians, mostly stealing non-Talking livestock to survive, but a handful of the local creatures and Animals had gone missing as well. When Peter had found that fact out from the residents of a local Marshwiggle family, he had been rightly angry, as had his troops. To Edmund's quiet satisfaction, though, Peter hadn't simply declared war and slaughtered the brutes. Instead, he had charged them with leaving the kingdom at once, despite being in a position where he could rightfully have decided not to give them the opportunity. In their arrogance, they had refused, and Peter had made sure that they paid dearly for the error.

The rest of the boy's time was spent bantering lightly over a few rounds of chess, using a gold and silver set that Peter had got for Edmund the previous Christmas, the ruby and sapphire eyes of the pieces sparkling in the light of the overhead candelabra as they played and laughed, and occasionally being 'hushed' by one of the library staff. The brothers had almost lost track of time, and were just starting to think about heading down to the kitchens to find some tea (and the possibility of a scone), when one of the guards entered the library by one of the side doors. Recognising Ciaphas, Edmund caught the satyr's attention and called him over.

"Good morn, my kings," he said in greeting as the pair stood, still intent on heading to the kitchen. Ciaphas inclined his impressively horned head, indicating the chess board now stowed under Edmund's arm, and asked in polite tones, "If I might enquire, who won the match?"

"Peter did," Edmund replied, nodding at his brother with a wry smile. "Three games to two. I'll get him next time," he finished, ignoring the muttering of 'you hope' from Peter's general direction. "Do you play at all?"

"It has been known," the satyr replied with a nod, "though I must confess to not being very good."

"Well, we'll have to arrange a game," Peter chimed in with almost indecent haste; Ciaphas and his brother were newly transferred to the palace guard, and there was some hope that the tyranny of Dame Utha's orders regarding anyone playing chess against the kings had not yet reached the quietly spoken soldier.

"It would be an honour," Ciaphas replied with a bow and a small smile. He brandished the leather-bound book he had been holding up to this point with a small wave. "If you will excuse me, majesties, this needs returning to its rightful place." With another bow, the satyr moved away towards one of the large sets of shelves, and the kings turned toward the door. A second later, they heard Ciaphas call them back.

"I almost forgot, your majesties," he said, a conspiratorial smile beginning to shoulder its way past his shaggy mane of black hair. "Your sisters asked me if I would pass on a message. They request your presence for tea on the eastern balcony, if you would be so kind. They said to say there would be scones." He was rewarded with two sets of wide eyes, and two pairs of eyebrows shooting skyward in near-perfect unison.

"They're here? How... _when_?" were just some of the questions asked, much to everyone within earshot's ill-disguised amusement. After a few seconds of babbling, though, the brothers looked at each other, the same thought being received and voiced in tandem.

"_Lucy!_"

* * *

Author's Notes: And here it is at last. I apologise to everyone who has been waiting for this update... life has been a little less than accommodating, I'm afraid.

But I'm back! Rejoice! (or panic, depending entirely upon your predilection...) After finishing my last Transformers ficlet at last, I've been splitting my time between rebooting my novel, the very worst kind of writer's block, and finishing off this little nugget. Hopefully, this means that more chapters will be forthcoming soon.

Again, this chapter is horribly meandering, for which I apologise, but that seems to be the way the story wants to be written; as with chapter one, I started out with a very different view of where this chapter was going. The duel scene has been playing around in my head for a while, since writing Regrets, in fact... the idea of Narnian martial arts, not to mention the idea of species related dialects, have been rather intriguing, and somehow the two had a litter. This was one of them. When it came to writing the piece, though, it kind of grew, well out of proportion from its original, rather svelte form... I just hope it doesn't make Edmund look like some kind of medieval ninja (though ninja!Ed is kinda cool as an idea). An e-cookie to anyone who can tell me where the name of the last move he uses comes from, incidentally :)

And a second imaginary treat item of dubious nutritional value to the first person to tell what 'Misericorde' means, too...

In closing, my thanks to Elecktrum once more for allowing me to play in her corner of the Narnia multiverse... I continue to hope and pray that this work can come anywhere close to doing your beautiful stories justice, good my friend.

All reviews welcome! (Less than subtle, I know...)


	3. Chapter 3

Moonlight

Chapter Three

Peter and Edmund reached the eastern balcony just as the sun began its final climb toward noon. As the kings descended the last flight of steps, and turned left into the short gallery that led to the balcony itself, they found themselves squinting slightly, as their eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine. The gallery and balcony sat about halfway down the cliffs that Cair Paravel sat upon, carved directly into the cream-coloured stone. Vines and flowers wound around narrow columns and wide archways, and framed a clear view of the beach below, and the vast ocean beyond, which glittered in the midday sun with countless, diamond-like points. A gentle breeze ran through the gallery, easing away the collected heat of the morning, and making the vines sway gently.

As the brothers walked toward the balcony at the gallery's end, they were met by a sound that instantly made the boys smile. High, clear laughter, immediately recognizable as Lucy's, mingled with faint gull song and the soft sounds of the ocean below them, drifted toward them. The girls were home at last, and without thinking about it, Peter and Edmund quickened their pace slightly, eager to see their sisters. Two dozen yards away, on the balcony itself, a gaggle of dryads, divine waters, fauns and Animals were milling about, alternately arranging a table with what looked like a light lunch, or happily greeting their queens. As the boys drew closer, they caught occasional glimpses of Susan and Lucy, but failed at first to catch their eyes.

The balcony was half covered, the ceiling of the corridor extending out and over its width, while the arches and balustrade fell away to the kings' right, framing a delicately mosaicked floor that stretched toward the sea, until it was just over twice as deep as the gallery was wide. More vines and clinging ivy hung tenaciously from the cliff above them, forming a curtain of sorts that Lucy had always enjoyed watching on days like this, the faint perfume of the small flowers above them filling the air. The boys stood on the threshold for a few moments, watching as their sisters greeted their friends and subjects, before Peter coughed politely, announcing their presence. Lucy looked up first.

"Peter!" With an excited cry, the youngest Pevensie ran forwards, throwing herself bodily into Peter's waiting arms. With no discernible effort, he picked her up and twirled her around once, grinning all the while, before lowering her to the floor gently.

"Hullo, Lu," he greeted her in turn, before planting a small kiss amongst her auburn tresses, then pulling her into a warm hug.

Looking up, he greeted Susan in turn, as she leaned over their younger sister and gave him a kiss on the cheek, her left hand coming to rest on his shoulder for a moment. He could see the obvious question in her eyes; Susan wanted to know how his campaign in the north had gone, wanted to know how he had fared facing the giants, but didn't want to break the happy mood by asking. Peter gave her a smile that at once told her that he was fine, and that they would talk in a while. She smiled again, understanding, before turning to Edmund, who stood a couple of feet away, watching the scene with a quiet smile on his lips.

"Edmund," she whispered softly in greeting, before embracing him warmly, resting her chin briefly on his shoulder.

"Hello, Susan," he replied, equally quietly, as they both stepped back a little. His smile deepening, Edmund tilted his head in their siblings' direction, before adding, "It looks like she missed him." Susan looked at Lucy and Peter, who were still animatedly catching up with one another, then smiled back at her younger brother.

"We all did," Susan said, while her gaze wandered over Edmund's face. Edmund noticed her slightly concerned expression, but made no comment, content to simply let his sister exorcise her motherly instincts in her own way. Apparently happy that Edmund at least looked like had had enough sleep while she was away, and that he hadn't starved himself, Susan smiled once more, before reaching up and brushing a stray lock of his hair away from his brow. "You need a haircut," she said simply, her expression belying her mildly disapproving tone.

"Yes, Mum," Ed replied with a smirk, while turning slightly and opening his arms, wrapping them around Lucy as she approached, and holding her tight for a moment. "Hello, Lu. How was your visit with Mr. Tumnus?" he asked.

"Oh, it was lovely!" Lucy enthused, as the family made their way to the back of the balcony, and the table of refreshments that waited there. Susan, it transpired, had sent word to the kitchens via one of the scouts with their small retinue, and had arranged for tea, dainty sandwiches of assorted fillings, and a selection of scones, jams and preserves. As the Pevensies each started to help themselves to some of the food, Lucy continued to fill the boys in on their trip.

"...and we went swimming with the Naiads in the river just down the valley from Beaversdam. Oh, that reminds me, the Beavers invited us up for dinner on the second night; Mrs. Beaver's cooking hasn't improved very much, bless her, but she does try! And Mr. Beaver sends his regards to you both, of course."

Edmund wondered at that moment just how much nudging from Mrs. Beaver had prompted his inclusion in the regards-sending; the younger king had never exactly seen eye to eye with Mr. Beaver, as it were, and he doubted they would ever be friends, though they were civil enough to one another, for the most part. Peter chose that moment to ask Lucy a question, and Edmund used the brief change in the conversation's flow to help himself to another scone, topped generously with blackberry jam and a little clotted cream.

Midday slowly blended into early afternoon, the shadow from the overhang slowly inching its way toward the sea, but the four young monarchs showed no signs of leaving their chosen location. The whole while, the balcony rang with happy voices and laughter, mixed with occasional, more serious moments, as the conversation ebbed and flowed around Peter's recounting of his campaign in the North. The laughter returned as Edmund told the girls about his ousting Rashmeed from the Cair, accompanied by a brief footnote (and a passable impression of the Calormene, Edmund later admitted) from Peter's own meeting with the man.

Susan's response to the news that Rashmeed still had not left Narnia was one of mild dismay; she had tutted a little at her brothers' strong responses to the man, but upon hearing of his persistence, she admitted that she was rather glad that she hadn't been around for the Tarkaan to 'woo', if such a word truly existed in far Calormen. Susan mentioned this as the siblings finally began their ascent to the rest of their home, and they all agreed that it was, indeed, very fortunate that Lucy had invited her away when she had. This, in turn, raised a half-serious cough from Edmund, followed by a very-nearly serious question.

"Yes, about that," he began, half-raising an eyebrow at his little sister. "Peter and I were wondering, Lucy... would you mind telling us just how you managed to time that so well?"

O o O o O

Darius Horne was not a man who was easily worried, much less frightened. He had captained his ship, the _Barghest_, for almost thirty years; many in his home town had joked that he was as much a part of the ageing merchantman as the figurehead, or even the deck. In that time he had survived storms, maelstroms, pirate raids, and even one attack from a kraken (or so the owner of the _Boar's Head _still told), with the same air of gruff, seemingly endless stoicism that he presented to every event in his life. On more than one occasion, when the Sorceress-Queen of Narnia had demanded tithe from the Lone Islands, he had gone, sailed to that land of ice and dark magicks and fell beasts, with little word on the matter. If he had ever known fear in his life, he had never once shown it, or admitted to it; through it all, he simply stood at the helm, flint-grey eyes watching the world evenly from beneath craggy, weather-worn brows.

The man currently standing at the bow of Horne's ship gave him pause, for the first time in living memory. To the outside world, the change in the captain's demeanour was too small to notice. It was nothing more than a subtle shift in his stance, a slight tightening of his grip on the helm; the signs were there, though, for anyone who knew where to look. Horne caught himself eyeing the man warily, and tore his gaze away from the intruder, cursing inwardly at his suddenly nervous disposition. He just hoped that no-one had noticed; a reputation, after all, took a lifetime to build, and mere moments to tear down, and he would not lose his reputation because of some lord from Galmia.

The crew had, in fact, noticed the change in their captain, though to a man they respected him far too much to ever mention the fact. A feeling of unease had followed the lord and his retinue on board, and had spread like a fine mist throughout the crew, starting not long after the ship had left the small port of Stormhaven. The crew had little to do with their passengers, for the most part, but those who did spoke in hushed tones that this man, this Galmian lord, was somehow... _unsettling_. There was something about his bearing, his cold gaze, that left a man wishing to be elsewhere. He was polite enough, well-spoken as was befitting a man of his status, but even so, there was something not quite right about him. The lord's retinue, two sallow faced men, and a young boy of no more than thirteen summers, bore much of the same bearing, albeit quieter still than their master. When the crew started to notice that their captain was as put out by their guests as they were, the feeling of wrongness they all felt only intensified.

The _Barghest_'s journey, at least, was nearing its end, and soon the unwelcome guests would be on their way. For Captain Horne and his crew, the time couldn't pass soon enough. They were approaching Kellsalter, the new Narnian port, and would be docked in less than half an hour; signals had been run from ship to shore and back, identifying the _Barghest_, her cargo and passengers, and the port master had signalled their permission to enter dock. The mainsails had already been furled and stowed, and the crew were bustling to and fro, preparing for the last approach to the harbour's main pier by oar. After that, Horne mused, Lord Fenrir was entirely someone else's problem...

O o O o O

An hour later, the _Barghest _was securely moored, and the business of unloading her cargo had begun in earnest. A group of fauns and Animals had met the vessel and her crew on the pier, and were now aiding the Galmians to unload crates of dried fruit, an assortment of cured hams and salted flanks of pork, wheels of smoked cheese, a few barrels of spring wine, and a number of other sundries. In turn, a pile of crates were waiting to be loaded onto the vessel in trade. The air was full of sharp sounds and loud, but indistinct voices, mingled with the shrill cries of passing merfolk and the cawing of gulls, both Talking and not.

Lord Alaric Fenrir stood a fair distance away from the ship, well out of the way of the sailors and dockhands, watching the proceedings with vague disinterest. He was glad to be free of the confines of the ship. After just a day on board, the general smell of the thing and its crew had begun to make him nauseous; quite how he had managed the entire journey without comment (or worse) was beyond him. By comparison, the cool, salt-edged breeze blowing in from the sea and across the cove was positively refreshing. It teased at the edges of his long, black travelling cloak, and pulled playfully at the carefully braided length of his grey hair, leaving him feeling somehow cleansed.

After a few moments more, Alaric turned slowly, taking in Kellsalter in its entirety. Beyond the sea-green flanks of the _Barghest_, which he noted with some distaste were peeling in places, he could make out the sea wall that surrounded the harbour. Turning further, in toward land, Alaric could make out a network of wooden buildings lining most of the shore. Many were small huts and workshops, but at their centre stood a cluster of four larger buildings. Two, at least, were probably storehouses, while the other two each had one of their sides open to the sea, and a set of runners each leading down into the water, betraying their use as dry docks. Lord Fenrir couldn't make out much from where he stood, but it appeared that at least one of the latter was housing the framework of a vessel, which looked as though it would be at least as large as the one he had just left.

A loud _crash _and a string of startled cries dragged the lord out of his sightseeing reverie, and he spun back toward the _Barghest_. At the foot of the wide boarding ramp, one of his horses, Tempest, had just kicked over part of a pile of crates. The jet-black charger was living up to his name, stamping hard and whinnying furiously, and desperately trying to bite or kick the small human who was, in turn, trying desperately to restrain the animal. Marcus and Arran, his two menservants, were escorting the group's other horse, a snow white mare named Gwynt, and the last of Lord Fenrir's trunks down the ramp, respectively, and were acting too slowly to be of any real help. With long, seemingly unhurried strides, Alaric moved forward to take charge of the situation.

Shoving the boy roughly out of his way, Fenrir grabbed the horse's reigns with a quick motion, his hand snatching out almost too fast to follow. The high-strung animal looked as though he was about to rear up once more, but before it could, Fenrir brought its head around with a sharp tug, and stared it straight in the eye. A long, tense moment passed between man and beast, before the animal finally calmed, lowering its head slightly, submitting to the unflinching gaze of his master. The lord's stance relaxed slightly, and he loosened his grip, though he didn't let go entirely. He held onto the bridle with his left hand, whilst slowly running his right up and over Tempest's muzzle, a faint smile ghosting over his features as he did so. That smile disappeared a moment later, as Lord Fenrir turned to face the boy.

"You little fool," he hissed, slapping the youth hard with the back of his left hand, and knocking him to the ground. "If I can't trust you with something as simple as this, Lucian, how can you be trusted with anything else? Now, get up!" The boy stared up at Fenrir with wide, dark eyes, traces of tears threatening to form at their corners. His gaze was at first shocked, then defiant for a brief moment, but at a twitch of the lord's hand he bowed his head.

"Yes, sir," he replied, barely above a whisper, before standing and moving to take the reigns once more. Tempest looked as though he was going to start acting up once more, but at a quelling glance from his master he instead whinnied quietly, before falling into step as Lucian led him away, toward a small wagon that the group had requisitioned for their belongings. Fenrir watched them go, stepping aside as Marcus and Arran followed Lucian and the charger.

Had anyone been paying attention to the man at that moment, they may have seen the dark, brooding expression that briefly crossed his face, and lingered in his eyes. It was only there for an instant, and was gone the next, buried once more beneath the stoic mask he habitually wore. He took a deep breath, blue-grey eyes closed to the world, as though calming himself. Opening his eyes once more, Lord Fenrir followed his subordinates off of the pier, and into Narnia.

O o O o O

Evening was beginning to draw in, the sun setting over the hills and forests of Narnia in a sweeping display of orange and crimson. Faint notes of evening birdsong hung in the still air; the only other sounds were those of soft, rhythmic hoof-beats and turning wheels, as the party of four made their way to Cair Paravel. The castle walls were starting to loom large against the sky ahead of them, hundreds of crystal windows glowing in the waning light. Lord Fenrir watched them with something approaching interest, as though searching for signs of life. They would be there soon, probably no more than half an hour more on the road.

A low sigh caught his attention, and he reluctantly turned to face its source. Lucian was sitting next to him on the front of the wagon, the tow-headed boy's frame slumped forward slightly. Another soft sigh, which had started to sound more like a snore, escaped him, and Fenrir realised that the boy was falling asleep. Releasing a sigh of his own, he woke Lucian with a nudge to the ribs. The effect was immediate, and the youth sat up straighter, before offering Lord Fenrir a sheepish expression and a quiet apology. The lord nodded in acceptance, turning his gaze back to the road. He seemed to think for a few moments, before looking back at Lucian once more.

"I apologise for losing my temper," he said, his tone quiet and conversational, if not quite gentle. "The journey has been hard, but still... There is much at stake here, Lucian." Silence fell once more, making the sounds of the horses, the carriage, of the two servants leading them, sound all the more pronounced. Through it all, Fenrir regarded the boy closely, awaiting some answer. When none came, he spoke once more.

"I need your mind focussed," he said, his voice lowering another octave. "Are you with me on this, Lucian?" The boy looked up then, and Fenrir searched his dark eyes, looking for any hint of hesitancy. If there was any there when Lucian finally answered, the boy hid it well.

"I am with you... Father..."

* * *

Author's Notes: Not the longest chapter, this, nor the most exciting, and to all those who have been waiting so patiently for a new addition to this story, I apologise for those facts. But, here it is, nonetheless. I also apologise for the length of time it has taken me to update... let's just say that there has been a lot going on, and leave it there.

What I will say is a big thank you, once more, for reading. Hopefully, the next chapter will be faster in coming. All reviews and comments are welcome!


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